Crimson Fire

In the land of Corania, the lone survivor of a shipwreck, a Kymric woman, makes her way to shore, gives birth to her child, and dies. So begins a cycle of events that will end in a tragic war.

Havgan of Corania knows he is different from others, although he does not know why. He does know, however, he hates the witches of Kymru with all his heart. When his years of scheming come to fruition and he becomes Warleader of Corania, he sets the might of the Empire against Kymru.

In Kymru, Gwydion the Dreamer dreams of the coming destruction of his country and the deaths of those he loves. Desperate to unravel the truth of the dream, he seeks out Rhiannon and together they join in a race against time. Traveling to Corania to spy on Havgan, they are accepted into his household and try to uncover his plans while concealing their true identities. In their frantic attempt to save Kymru, they risk everything. But when an unthinking action threatens to doom them all, Gwydion and Rhiannon must fight not only to discover Havgan’s secret, but understand why Havgan seems so hauntingly familiar.

". . . excellent fantasy . . . There is plenty of action, irony, and emotion in this tale of two kinds of people: religious zealots and paranormals. This is a richly crafted book. We look forward to reviewing the rest of the series and rated this book a score of five hearts."~ Bob Spear, Heartland Reviews

"This is a terrific epic fantasy with an enjoyable final twist that readers will sort of see coming, but will be surprised anyway. The story line is fast-paced and filled with action as the ethnic cleansing seems heading into Armageddon unless Rhiannon and Gwydion can stop the obsessed Warleader from his final solution. Sub-genre fans will enjoy Holly Taylor’s fine tale once the genocidal countdown to a country-wide High Noon begins."~ Harriet Klausner, Independent Reviewer

Dorfas, Marc of Cantware Weal of Coran, Coranian Empire Natmonath, 458 Sweltan Daeg—night She was barely alive when her body, battered by the relentless waves, washed up on the sands. Slowly she dragged herself farther up the deserted beach, clutching at the sand with her hands, pulling herself away from the swirling, black water inch by precious inch. Her breath came and went in harsh gasps as she coughed weakly, expelling water, blood, and bile from her aching lungs. Her sodden gown, its rich materials in tatters, clung to her body, weighing her down unbearably. Blood dripped slowly from her matted hair down her once-beautiful face.

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After an eternity she stopped moving and lay on her side, clutching her swollen belly, her face buried in the rough sands. A spasm rippled through her, and she clenched her teeth against the pain. She shuddered as the cold night wind whipped around her and whispered, “No, no, bachen. For pity’s sake, wait. Not here. Not here.” Slowly she lifted her head to the night sky. The stars were cold and clear and the rays of the waxing moon spilled over her, wrapping her in cold, silvery fi re. She wondered vaguely if the Lady of the Moon could see her lying here; wondered if Nantsovelta would take pity on her and send someone, anyone, to help her live through the storm’s sullen wake. Another spasm rippled through her pain-wracked body. “No, no, not yet,” she whispered. “Wait. Wait.”